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While my love dies I live in a recovery home two streets down, behind the holly. Mornings I hover over his sleep, blue bedclothes he will slip beyond. I weave forget-me-nots in my hair and wear paper crowns. When he disappears I am the naked one. Evenings are spent in anonymous candlelit projects, church basements; after prayers the circle opens and I’m free to look through wardrobes and bureaus of old clothes. In the dusty light I dress in velvet, fox and rabbit. A game, I’m all made-up; at the funeral, prewar lace with satin bow below my heart.
About Ariel Dawn
Ariel Dawn’s prose poetry recently appears in GUEST ( a journal of guest editors), Train: a journal of prose poems, dusie: the tuesday poem, talking about strawberries all of the time, and Coven Editions Grimoire. She writes with Tarot cards and oracles and lives in Victoria, British Columbia.
